


Who'd want me for a flatmate?

by TasarienOfCarasGaladhon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Moving house sucks, Mrs. Hudson's cooking, Nosey Mycroft, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Sherlock needs more friends, Sherlock searching for flats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon
Summary: John Watson was the second person to say this to Mike. How did Sherlock come to say it, and what were his thoughts leading up to the epic meeting of Sherlock and John?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting on my hard drive for about two years! I polished it up a bit and decided to post it, now that we have more insight into Sherlock's background. I knew he wasn't as heartless as he seemed! =)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy and leave some feedback if you're so inspired.

_Wednesday the 20 th, January 2010_

 

“Holmes, I told you a dozen times: bring more bloody chemicals and body parts into my flat, and you'll be out on your ear! And here you are, with bottles of who-knows-what and a bag of ruddy _fingers_!”

 

 _Well_ , thought Sherlock Holmes, _that was hardly fair_. He didn't usually listen to Tomkins when he spoke, or rather, shouted at his renters. How was he expected to remember all of his stupid rules? He was usually distracted by the bits of food on his clothes, the horrendous stench of his breath, or the tell-tale signs of his latest extramarital affair.

 

“I've had it with you, Mister Detective,” the landlord said, chest heaving. “Out! I'll give you until Friday, and if you're not gone by then I'll chuck your things in the skip. Understood?”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock told him, sneering at Tomkins from his spot on the landing. The old man stomped away, still bellowing, but Sherlock was no longer listening.

 

 _How dull_ , he mused. Once again, he'd have to take time from his cases and experiments to search for a flat. And he couldn't even move into the new place until the first of February, most likely, so he'd have to sleep at Mycroft's place, _again_.

 

He opened the door to his cramped little flat on autopilot, pondering the horrible prospect of a week and a half at his brother's house. How he'd gloat! The bag of fingers went in the fridge, and the sodium acetate on his shelf of chemicals. Home sweet home, for two more days at least, and then to Mycroft's house he'd go. What a ghastly prospect.

 

Sinking into his favorite green armchair, Sherlock pulled his computer onto his lap. This was not the first time he'd been evicted for conducting experiments, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. It was his fate to be misunderstood by smaller minds wherever he went. He was a freak; he'd always been The Freak.

 

That was an entirely useless thought. Sherlock pulled his wayward mind back to business.

 

As the computer booted, the detective reached under his armchair and pulled out a nicotine patch, then stuck it on with brisk efficiency. He'd moved around London so often that he had most flat listings memorized; however, new ones popped up now and again. It would have been remiss not to look.

 

As fast as he could scroll, Sherlock eliminated results from his mental list. _Too small. Too far. Too expensive. Owner hates me. Lived there before. Too large. I had the owner's wife incarcerated. Too expensive. Too—wait a moment!_

 

When he saw a listing with a familiar door, he remembered the kindly woman associated with it. He'd built a room for her in his mind palace, which was a rare privilege in this world of idiots. 221B Baker Street was available, and far out of his price range, unless he dipped into his backup funds. Though the Holmes family came from old money, Sherlock preferred to support himself, eschewing expensive houses like his brother's. He _did_ have a taste for expensive clothes, and science equipment wasn't always cheap, but everyone had their vices. Besides, Sherlock reasoned, some cases required blending in to certain places, and a cheap, off-the-rack suit wouldn't do when mingling with the acquaintances of his more prestigious clients.

 

Unfortunately, detective work only paid well if the clients were rich and desperate. Many were desperate, but both qualities together were not so common. If he wished to stay in London, he'd need many more rich clients than he currently had to afford the rent prices in the City of Westminster.

 

But if Mrs. Hudson was the landlady, Sherlock thought, she might offer him a deal. He dropped by now and again, and she was always happy to see him. She usually clucked at his naturally skinny frame, and fed him excellent biscuits as she gossiped about her neighborhood. Sherlock didn't care about any of the neighbors and their petty squabbles and affairs, but Mrs. Hudson's observations of them, while unscientific, were surprisingly entertaining. She was sharper than she looked.

 

Ready to jump up and visit, Sherlock noticed the time on the corner of his laptop screen: 1:53 in the morning. She'd be fast asleep, and wouldn't take kindly to Sherlock waking her up. The chances of her accepting him as a lodger dropped considerably if he annoyed her so early in the morning.

 

 _How_ _boring_ , he sighed internally. _It seems like I spend half of my life waiting for people to wake up._

 

Discouraged, Sherlock put down his laptop. All of his previous landlords believed that he existed to irritate them, when it was the other way around entirely. Did no one in the world see the importance of his detective work?

 

Thoughts of landlords brought him back to Martha Hudson. His memory had been excellent even as a child, and building a Mind Palace had only improved it. He could remember the Hudson case as if it were yesterday; all those dead women, the mess of a drug cartel, and the estranged wife with the interesting past and hidden strength.

 

 _Mr. Holmes, if you can do what you say,_ she had told him, eyes wide with hope, _you're a lifesaver._

 

Her criminal ex-husband was dead now, after years on Florida's Death Row. By the look of things, the boring, no-nonsense City man who'd lived in 221B for years had moved out, leaving Mrs. Hudson with two empty flats above and below her own. The timing could not be better!

 

Making a mental note to see her at nine o'clock, Sherlock returned to his list of flats. There were five new places he could afford on his own, although none of them were as convenient as Baker Street. He memorized the addresses and landlord contact information just in case, then shut down his laptop.

 

Now that Baker Street was an option, Sherlock had become oddly fixated on the idea. He couldn't imagine himself living in the other flats, though he'd have to if Mrs. Hudson was inflexible with her rent. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it yet. He'd have to wait another seven hours and hope for the best.

 

While the rest of London slept, Sherlock Holmes was wide awake. That was nothing new; silence didn't bother him as much as boredom, anyway. Looking quickly around his sitting room, he made up his mind. The flattened cardboard boxes he'd kept from his last five moves came out of the closet, and the detective started packing his books.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Thursday the 21_ _st_ _, January 2010_

 

At nine o'clock, Sherlock knocked on Mrs. Hudson's front door. Speedy's was bustling, and four clients passed him on their way out, carrying disposable coffee cups and bags with their chosen pastry or bacon sandwich. Sherlock amused himself by deducing what he could about each one, though none were anything but ordinary. Two minutes after his first knock, the detective switched mentally from Plan A to Plan B for the day, since Mrs. Hudson was obviously not home.

 

 _Well, this is tedious,_ he thought dully _._ Plan B involved talking to Mycroft and starting the move. Sherlock lived in a small flat, but he'd accumulated many books, clothes, and science equipment that would need to move with him, and he had nowhere to store it just yet.

 

As Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, his phone rang.

 

_Damn my brother and his omnipresent spooks!_

 

“Mycroft,” he said venomously. “Shouldn't you be catching terrorists, or you know, doing something _useful_?”

 

“I'm afraid the terrorists are having a lie-in today,” Mycroft Holmes answered, sounding unbearably smug as always. “Looking for a new home, little brother?”

 

“It's time for a change,” Sherlock told him, knowing it was no use. Mycroft always made it his business to know _everything_.

 

“Oh, I'm sure. I'll send a van 'round to that toxic waste dump you call a flat. Mrs. Martha Hudson should be home around three, by my calculations. You'll have plenty of time to pack, and I'll have your bedroom ready as always.”

 

“Lovely,” the younger Holmes answered, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Will we stay up late, watching naughty films, telling stories and eating sweeties, big brother? And when I say big, I don't just mean big in age—”

 

“Please,” Mycroft snorted, ignoring Sherlock's jab at his weight, as always. “We didn't even do that as children. Why start now?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Sherlock hung up without the bother of a goodbye. If he was about to spend the next ten days or more at Mycroft's house, he didn't want to waste any more time speaking with him. It never ended well.

 

The van was waiting at Sherlock's flat when he arrived, of course. One of Mycroft's nameless underlings stood beside it, checking his watch with a wordless sort of impatience. Sherlock said nothing, but headed upstairs and made himself a cup of tea. Only when he'd eaten half a packet of chocolate biscuits and finished his tea, he started bringing down the boxes from his sitting room.

 

Sherlock was quite used to running around London, chasing down criminals with Scotland Yard and such. Detective work didn't usually require much arm strength, however. His arms burned after eighteen boxes of books, and he had more to pack. While his brother's man waited downstairs, glued to his phone for something to do, Sherlock packed up his socks, pants, and shirts. The suits he'd leave on his clothing rack, bought because the flat's minuscule closet hardly merited the name.

 

He kept up the tedious work, glad that he'd kept all of the boxes and bags from previous moves. His neighbors didn't offer help, and he didn't ask. Sherlock knew that this sort of manual labor was one that friends helped with, but he had no friends to ask, and he wouldn't beg Mycroft for assistance. It would be far too humiliating.

 

Before he knew it, it was half six. The day had come and gone, and Sherlock was ready to scream. His flat was empty except for an overnight bag with clothes, his laptop and violin in their cases, his bedroom furniture, and his green armchair. Annoyed at the tragic waste of time, he dialed Mrs. Hudson's number from memory.

 

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, hello. This is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock!” she greeted, delighted. “This is lovely; I haven't heard from you in months! How are you?”

 

“Fine, fine,” the detective replied. “Only I'm in a bit of a bind. I find myself in need of new living arrangements, Mrs. Hudson. I noticed you have the B flat available—”

 

She gave an unearthly squeal that had Sherlock pulling his mobile far from his battered ear. “You want to live with me? That would be _lovely_ , Sherlock!”

 

“It would,” he buttered her up, “though it's a bit above my budget, I'm afraid.”

 

Mrs. Hudson tutted. “Oh, silly boy, that price is for strangers! You're a friend; I'll take £500 off the rent, just for you.”

 

Sherlock sighed. It was a generous offer, but the rent was still too high for him. Mrs. Hudson, with her usual perception, caught his objection before he stated it.

 

“Sherlock, you know this flat has two bedrooms. What if you found yourself a flatmate to take the upstairs? Surely you could afford it then?”

 

“Yes, of course. But it's finding a flatmate that gives me the most trouble,” Sherlock admitted.

 

“Well, see if you can find one in the next few days. I've had plenty of applicants, but if you can find someone before the first, I'll rent to you, Sherlock. Mr. Wallace moved out his things already, so the flat is empty and clean.”

 

Alone in his empty flat, Sherlock grinned in genuine happiness (not that anyone would believe it). “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be in touch.”

 

“Good! Pop 'round anytime, dear.”

 

“Bye.”

 

“Bye!”

 

The matter of a flatmate would have to wait for now. Determined to enjoy his last night of freedom, Sherlock reached for his violin and tuned it. He was in the mood for Vivaldi tonight, and none of his neighbors had any leverage to stop him. What could they do, _evict_ him?

 

With a satisfied smirk, Sherlock closed his eyes and began to play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Sunday the 24 th, January 2010_

 

Speedy's Cafe was closed on Sundays. Sherlock took advantage of this and paid Mrs. Hudson a visit then. She greeted him with a motherly hug, then pulled him inside, fussing about the cold and his uncovered head. He supposed she'd felt his freezing-cold nose while hugging him.

 

“You'll catch your death, Sherlock,” she fussed, pulling off his scarf and coat and forcing him into the comfortable chair by the fire. Sherlock looked her over, noting the ink smudge on her finger from the newspaper crossword, the hairs the new cat had left on the rug, and Mrs. Hudson's new perfume. It wasn't strong, just a hint of lavender, but the scent of freshly-baked biscuits overpowered it.

 

“Well?” she asked, offering him the perfect cup of Earl Grey. “How goes the search for a flatmate?”

 

“Poorly,” Sherlock told her, sipping at his tea. “I'm not the easiest man to live with, you know.”

 

Mrs. Hudson giggled over her own teacup. “You really shouldn't say that to a prospective landlady, but since I know you, I'll forget you said it.”

 

“You know what I mean. I work at odd hours, and can't abide small talk, for a start.”

 

“It doesn't need to be a stranger,” the landlady chided gently. “What about a girlfriend?” Looking at Sherlock's perplexed face, she added “Or boyfriend? I'm not one to judge.”

 

“I don't do romantic entanglements, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, once he'd recovered from the unexpected question.

 

“You can't fool _me_ , young man,” she said, eyes twinkling fondly. “You're a human being, just like the rest of us. Someday you'll meet someone, and you'll want all the romantic entanglement you can get; I can feel it.”

 

“I'd rather not wait until then to move in,” Sherlock replied, as close to pouting as an adult could get.

 

“Then get a move on, Sherlock Holmes!”

 

Mrs. Hudson offered Sherlock a plate of biscuits, nodding in satisfaction when he took two and placed them on his saucer. “I'd love to rent it to you for less, but the bills don't pay themselves, you know.”

 

“I know. I'll keep looking,” he offered, then chewed on a biscuit with genuine enjoyment. “I should warn you, though, that you'll have a visitor soon. He'll show up or send a car for you, ask you to spy on me, and might even offer you money for it.”

 

“What?” Mrs. Hudson cried, her eyebrows shooting up. “What sort of people are you involved with _now_ , Sherlock?”

 

“My brother.”

 

She stared at him, mouth open, as she decided if he was joking or not.

 

“He works for the government,” Sherlock said impatiently. “And he uses the power and resources given to him to spy on me. Rest assured that he's already had a background check done on you. If he tries to threaten you, feel free to punch him. I have a contact at Scotland Yard, so you won't be in _too_ much trouble.”

 

“You really mean it,” Mrs. Hudson said in amazement. “Well, if he _does_ show up, I'll tell him that my renters' business is between them and myself, and he can bloody well keep his nose out!”

 

The consulting detective laughed. “I'd love to witness that.”

 

Looking at Mrs. Hudson's clock, he sighed and put down his empty teacup. “I'd better go back to my search, Mrs. Hudson. I'll call you as soon as I have news.”

 

“Take care of yourself,” she admonished, following him to the door and watching as he bundled up again. “Bye, Sherlock!”

 

One hug later, Sherlock was dashing outside, and glaring in annoyance at the car his brother had sent for him. In a fit of spite he walked past it, following Baker Street south to Marylebone Road. Finding a cab was not difficult, not on a weekend when so many tourists took cabs to the wax museum. Sherlock hailed the nearest empty cab and gave him his brother's address, then checked his phone.

 

No messages.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Friday the 29 th, January 2010_

 

Sherlock had been spending as much time as possible out of his brother's house. Not that Mycroft ever worked fewer than 60 hours a week, but there was a principle involved. One did not have fun at Mycroft's house.

 

Instead, Sherlock had taken two cases for Lestrade, and both involved some lab work at Barts. He'd been there all day, absorbed in his work. The staff knew better than to bother him by now; only Molly dared, and she was his supplier of body parts.

 

Before visiting Molly downstairs, Sherlock headed to the Barts computer lab and checked the flats again. A quick glance told him that there was nothing new, or at least, nothing new that would work for him. It was a depressing prospect. Everything was too far, too expensive, or somehow unsuitable for his needs.

 

 _If only Mrs. Hudson were more flexible!_ he thought, frustrated.

 

Sherlock was lost in the glare of the computer screen when someone else appeared in the lab. It was Mike Stamford, a doctor he'd known for a few years.

 

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Stamford called out, cheerful as always.

 

“Stamford,” Sherlock answered.

 

As always, it was difficult to turn off his brain when speaking to someone. Mike was talking, but Sherlock couldn't hear over the noise in his own head. He was seeing dozens of details, all at once.

 

_Close shave. New razor, well-lit bathroom, not the little one he uses when he sleeps in his office. Had a proper night's sleep at home, then; under-eye circles are not as prominent today. Had coffee and jam on toast for breakfast, judging by the tiny stain on his right shirtsleeve. Apricot. There are grass stains on the hem of his new trousers; they're too long for him, wife has not hemmed them yet. Walked through the park for a bit of exercise, as he always does on Fridays. Useless—not enough calories expended for weight loss._

 

“Sherlock?” Mike said. Most people would have shown visible signs of irritation, but not Stamford. He knew Sherlock well by now, or at least, as well as one could know Sherlock Holmes. For some reason, he found him amusing rather than annoying. Sherlock wasn't sure if that was a relief, or just a new kind of insult.

 

“Sorry, Mike,” he said finally, driven by convention. “You were saying?”

 

Mike smirked. “I was wondering why you're looking at flats,” he repeated. “Not evicted again, were you?”

 

The detective scowled. “Brilliant deduction,” he told the doctor. “Yes, if you must know. My landlords do not approve of experiments, once they discover them.”

 

“Couldn't Mycroft help?” he offered, and nearly recoiled at my glare. “Right. Maybe not, then.”

 

“Living with Mycroft is a torture I would not wish on the worst of serial killers,” Sherlock muttered, fighting the urge to shudder. Mycroft, with his smug face and three-piece suits and boring government job. Mycroft, with his OCD and alphabetized library and his endless nagging about Sherlock's career choices.

 

“All of these are for one person,” Mike commented, still trying to be helpful. “Have you thought about sharing a larger flat?”

 

Sherlock looked at the doctor's good-natured face, disbelief coloring his voice. “Are you serious? Who would want _me_ for a flatmate?”

 

“Come on, Sherlock. You're a genius and an eccentric, not an alien,” he said, shrugging. “You've never shared before, honestly?”

 

“Not since university,” Sherlock answered crisply. That brought up a lot of uncomfortable memories, and he had to force himself to focus on the present. A long memory was a tremendous help when solving cases, but it was also a burden, when one could remember every punch and hateful comment ever directed one's way.

 

Stamford's expression changed, and Sherlock couldn't tell what he was thinking. He didn't _like_ not knowing. “I'd rather live alone, Mike.”

 

“Of course you would,” he replied, quieter than usual. “Listen, Sherlock,” he offered, hesitating. “If I found someone who'd be willing to share with you, would you meet him?”

 

Sherlock fought back a bitter laugh. “You don't know what you're offering, Stamford. They'll say yes to you, and run off as soon as they meet me.”

 

In truth, Sherlock was torn, more than he should have been about such a stupid thing. He didn't _want_ flatmates invading his space, touching his things, making noise, wanting him to go to the pub with them and expecting him to pay attention to all their _talk_. He didn't know how to respond to all of that without lashing out, and he knew too well how people reacted when he did.

 

But...it would be nice to have someone, for once, to listen when he wanted to talk. Someone to help with cases. Someone to care when he came home after a case, bleeding from a fight with a criminal. A reason to leave his head once in a while, and return to the real world. A familiar, painful knot formed in his chest, and half-formed thoughts swirled around his head.

 

He wasn't Mycroft; he never could have been. Mycroft had never had a friend as long as Sherlock could remember, and he seemed completely unfazed by it. Sherlock, on the other hand, was alone by circumstance rather than inclination, and he didn't know what to do about it. People disliked him almost on sight, they always had. Sherlock hardly tried to 'make friends' these days; it was a waste of effort. It was better to take up the sociopath title that people had so _graciously_ bestowed upon him, and wear it as metaphorical armor.

 

Sentiment, as Mycroft would have said, was a chemical defect. _I refuse to succumb to it._

 

“Mate?” Stamford was calling him, and once again Sherlock pulled himself out of his own thoughts. He realized that he'd been completely still for at least two minutes, much too long for a mid-conversation pause.

 

“Sorry, Mike,” he said at last. Hadn't he just apologized for something? He was sure he had...

 

Mike smiled wryly. “Today is one of those days, I can tell. Anyway, I'll keep an eye out and if anyone suitable pops up, I'll introduce you. I won't bring you a student or anything, Sherlock.”

 

“Thanks,” Sherlock answered, though he expected nothing to work out from that quarter.

 

It seemed to appease Mike, who grinned.

 

“I need to head down to the mortuary,” Sherlock informed him, logging out of the lab computer and pulling on his coat. The end of a riding crop was sticking out of a pocket, but Mike didn't notice it, or didn't mention it if he had. “Got a man's alibi to prove. See you later, Mike.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” he said to the detective, shaking his head.

 

If he'd said anything else, Sherlock had missed it. He was already thundering down the stairs, two at a time. It was time for a study in postmortem bruises.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, Sherlock was back upstairs in one of the chemistry laboratories. Since he could no longer conduct experiments at home, he'd been doing them at Barts, where he had connections that would grant him lab access. He'd completed the acetate experiment days ago, and moved on to the next one.

 

As he squeezed some of his collected Thames river water onto a Petri dish, someone knocked on the door. Sherlock looked up briefly and saw Mike, accompanied by another man he'd never seen before. He was limping heavily, and haggard from lack of sleep.

 

“Well,” the stranger said, “bit different from my day.”

 

Trained at Barts, then, Sherlock observed. But this was no ordinary doctor. He saw a tan face and hands, but pale skin under his collar and sleeves: _abroad, not on holiday. Short haircut, limp, and rigid posture suggest a military background. Army doctor then, discharged due to injury?_

 

He didn't catch Mike's answer, busy with his deductions. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine,” Sherlock said to him, sitting down.

 

“And what's wrong with the landline?”

 

“I prefer to text.”

 

That was a major understatement. Sherlock truly believed that texting was the greatest thing to happen to communication in decades. No more awkward silences on the phone, as the idiot on the other side struggled to follow his train of thought!

 

“Sorry,” Mike answered. “It's in my coat.”

 

To Sherlock's surprise, the other man offered him his phone. “Er, here, use mine.”

 

“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”

 

Sherlock stood up to take the mobile and looked at Mike. He was sure that in a situation like this, Stamford should have introduced them. Why hadn't he done it?

 

“Old friend of mine, John Watson,” Stamford said finally, pointing to his friend.

 

 _John Watson_ , Sherlock repeated internally, now standing next to the man. _Doctor Watson, army doctor John Watson_. He took the offered phone and looked it over; _new model, engraved for a Harry Watson from Clara with three kisses; scuff marks around the port, and scratches elsewhere. The phone is new, worth more than John can afford, judging by his clothes, and already this battered? Harry is an alcoholic for sure, and his marriage is on the rocks. The phone is a hand-me-down from a concerned relative, most likely a brother._

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

Sherlock typed his message to Lestrade and sent. It was for the police, so he'd made it as simple as possible.

 

_If brother has green ladder_

_arrest brother._

_SH_

 

It was a new number, but the contents and signature SH would alert even the dullest of Scotland Yard's finest that it was Sherlock sending it, or so he hoped.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated. _Hearing problems, perhaps, from all those exploding bombs and machine gunfire?_

 

There was brief silence. Sherlock could feel their gazes burning into his skin, or would have if that weren't a hyperbolic expression. He looked up, waiting for the moment when Mike's friend would storm off in a rage. They all did, in the end. Mike would be furious when I told him 'I told you so'.

 

Only John Watson was not storming off. Sherlock looked at Mike and he was smiling, as though this was all part of his plan.

 

“Afghanistan,” John Watson said finally. “Sorry, how did you know...?”

 

Molly chose this moment to come in, carrying a mug of coffee.

 

“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.”

 

 _See, Mycroft?_ Sherlock thought peevishly. _I can be perfectly polite when the need arises!_

 

He returned John's phone and took the mug, but there was something different about the petite woman. Where was her lipstick? And why was John Watson leaning so heavily on his cane, but not sitting down? Didn't his leg pain him more while supporting his weight?

 

“What happened to the lipstick?” Sherlock asked immediately, scrutinizing Molly's face for other changes.

 

“It wasn't working for me,” Molly answered, avoiding his gaze.

 

_What? That was ridiculous! The lipstick evened out her features and gave her face some color. I'm no expert on women's fashion and beauty advice, but isn't that what they want, generally?_

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now,” Sherlock told her honestly.

  
He walked back to his microscope and tried the coffee. Molly knew how he took his drinks, of course, but there was only so much she could do with this vile hospital stuff. She headed the other way with a reply Sherlock didn't quite catch.

 

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked John, who was still standing. _Ah!_ The realization hit Sherlock at once. It was a psychosomatic limp! So he _had_ been wounded in action recently, and it had been serious enough to get him discharged. Sherlock had deduced correctly, as usual.

 

The doctor didn't answer right away; he was still watching Molly, and then Mike.

 

“I'm sorry, what?”

 

Sherlock went back to his laptop and typed the results of his river water experiment.

 

“I play the violin when I'm thinking,” he elaborated. “Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” he asked, looking up at the soldier. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

 

Sherlock smiled encouragingly. He wasn't actually sure what the 'worst' about him was to ordinary people, and he knew better than to ask. His silence did bother them, though, as did the violin at odd hours.

 

“Oh, you...you told him about me?” John asked Mike. _Dull, but not frightened or disgusted yet_. This one might possibly work, although Sherlock refused to get his hopes up.

 

“Not a word,” Stamford answered. It was perfectly true; he hadn't said a word to Sherlock since their conversation this morning.

 

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John asked the detective.

 

Sherlock put on his coat. “ _I_ did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap.”

 

John asked him something, but Sherlock's mind had already jumped to the next stage as he put on his scarf. John Watson and himself, flatmates at 221B. He'd take the first floor bedroom, and give John the second floor, where he'd hear less of Sherlock's frantic pacing and late-night violin. Once his psychosomatic limp was gone, John wouldn't mind the stairs. Would it work? If he came, it just might! The picture in Sherlock's mind was so vivid and homey that he hated to leave it.

 

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London,” Sherlock confessed to John. “Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

 

He put his phone in a coat pocket, ready to leave.

 

“Is that it?” John asked, stopping him in my tracks.

 

“Is that what?”

 

“We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?”

 

“Problem?” Sherlock really didn't see one, but he understood facts and objects better than people. It was a deficiency that Mycroft rubbed in his face at every opportunity.

 

Stamford was not helping John with whatever it was that Sherlock hadn't said. Instead, he waited, looking from one of them to the other like a man at a tennis match.

 

“We don't know a _thing_ about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name.”

 

_Ah, I see. He's wrong, of course. He should have used I instead of we. Still, I can't conduct the Baker Street experiment if he doesn't show, and I want him to._

 

“I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan,” Sherlock told him, watching his face carefully. “I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid.”

  
John looked down at his leg and cane, as though he'd forgotten they were there.

 

“That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?”

 

He was about to leave again, when Sherlock repeated John's list of concerns to himself and remembered the last two. He turned back.

 

“The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street,” he said to him.

 

Sherlock winked. He wasn't sure why he'd done it; Lestrade said it made him seem more human, and despite his reluctance to have a flatmate, Sherlock thought John Watson had potential. He wouldn't mind if the soldier/doctor chose to live with him; in fact, he thought he might even enjoy it. He was the most interesting candidate Stamford could have brought him, despite his boring questions at their first meeting.

 

“Afternoon,” Sherlock said finally, and left without waiting for a reply.

  
John Watson had joined the short list of people who listened to his deductions about them without interrupting, shouting, or denying everything. He also seemed like the kind of man who could tell Sherlock's nosy git of a brother to piss off, should those two ever meet. He was an army doctor with no close family; Sherlock was sure that the man would want more than a boring, quiet life in the suburbs!

 

He left Barts feeling exhilarated. As soon as he'd walked outside and recovered the signal on his mobile, Sherlock called Mrs. Hudson. She answered on the fourth ring.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, hello,” he said happily.

 

“Sherlock! Will you be moving in, then?”

 

“Yes, I've found a flatmate,” Sherlock told her. “Do you mind if I move my things today?”

 

“Not at all, dear,” she answered. “It'll be lovely to have company again. Who is your flatmate?”

 

“He's an army doctor, recently discharged. Name's John Watson.”

 

“Wonderful!” his new landlady said. “Come anytime you like, and I'll give you the keys to the flat.”

 

“Thanks,” he told her, and then hung up as a cab stopped at his signal. He gave the cabbie Mycroft's address, and they were off.

 

* * *

 

Five hours later, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were sitting in the cluttered living room of 221B, having tea and scones. The detective had moved his clothing and personal items into the downstairs bedroom, and left the books and science equipment in the kitchen and sitting room, to sort out later. His favorite green chair was next to the fire, and the sofa against the far wall.

 

He wasn't really hungry, but Mrs. Hudson was an excellent baker, and Sherlock was not on a case at the moment, so he indulged. The scones were delicious, and the tea was just right. It always was, with Mrs. Hudson in charge.

 

“Oh, it will be lovely to have you here, Sherlock,” she said for the fourth time. “Are you _sure_ Doctor Watson will join you?”

 

He sighed. He'd been sure when he left the hospital, but doubt had seeped in while he unpacked his things.

 

“I think so,” he told her, “but I won't know for sure until tomorrow, when he comes by to see the place. I think I might have some more furniture delivered tomorrow, especially for the upstairs bedroom. John doesn't have much to call his own right now.”

 

“I have an armchair collecting dust in the spare room,” Mrs. Hudson offered. “We can place it across from yours, and that will look much more inviting.”

 

“Excellent,” Sherlock agreed. “Shall we bring it up, or is it too heavy for you?”

 

“It is a bit heavy,” she admitted. “But I'll ask the boys next door, don't you worry.”

 

She disappeared down the stairs, and returned minutes later with the couple that lived in Mrs. Turner's flat.

 

“Sherlock, this is Jacob Morland-Summers,” she introduced, and the detective shook hands with a man that matched him in height, but double his size. He was a former rugby player, though it was clear a knee injury had ended his hopes in that direction.

 

“And this is Fred Morland-Summers,” Mrs. Hudson added, patting the other man on the arm. Fred was five-foot nine, with green eyes behind thick glasses. Sherlock looked them both over in the time it took to shake hands, and deduced that Jacob was now a pub owner, and Fred his head chef.

 

“This is Sherlock Holmes. He's moving into the B flat.”

“Great, welcome,” said Jacob, grinning cheerfully. “Mrs. H. said you needed help with some furniture?”

 

Mrs. Hudson explained about the chair, and soon the four of them were on the stairs, the Morland-Summers couple carrying a faded red armchair as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson guided them around the sharp corners. Once it was down, the landlady placed a cushion with the British flag on it.

 

“He's a soldier, you said, your Doctor Watson?” she asked Sherlock cheekily.

 

“Yes, though I'm not sure a cushion will win him over,” the detective replied, chuckling.

 

“Well,” Sherlock's new landlady said, lowering her voice and winking, “I'll bake some of my best biscuits, and bring them up while you show him the flat. If that doesn't convince him, _nothing_ will.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, you're a treasure,” he answered, satisfied. She giggled and swatted him with her napkin, then offered the three men more scones. Fred and Jacob accepted them gratefully, then bid them a good evening and returned to their home next door. Sherlock slathered strawberry jam over his last scone, and ate with gusto.

 

He was delighted with the plan. Mrs. Hudson was the only person in this world, besides his mother, who could force him to eat when he didn't want to. Perhaps her assortment of baked goods and her homey touches could convince John Watson to make 221B Baker Street his home, if the promise of adventure could not.

 

 

 


End file.
